


I'm Not Sure If This is a Love Song

by twilights_blue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Background Character Death, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilights_blue/pseuds/twilights_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels are harbingers of death for whomever sees them. One dark night, Eames meets his angel. It's only a matter of time after that. Alternatively: Eames learns about life and death the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Sure If This is a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Inception Reverse Bang. I originally predicted it would be 5k words and, lmao, it really isn't. I'm no good at this whole deadlined work thing.
> 
> Anyway, big big BIG thanks to rolotux, whose art inspired this. Her masterpost (original work included) can be found [over here.](http://rolotux.livejournal.com/518.html) She gets lots of love for bearing with my writing process and getting some art done as well. uwu
> 
> Also big thanks to Heather, my editor. Without her, I doubt this would've gotten finished at all. You're amazing, beb.

There was a man in Eames' bedroom.

 

He was there when Eames woke, gasping and sweating, from a half-remembered dream, looking like he belonged there. He was sitting in the chair in the far corner, legs crossed at the knee, posture relaxed. It was too dark to see any details beyond that, but Eames could feel the stranger's eyes on him.

 

He hadn't been there when Eames fell asleep.

 

Eames sat up, his bedsheets pooling in his lap. "I'm impressed," he said. "How'd you get around my security system?"

 

The stranger didn't respond, didn't even move. Eames didn't let that deter him.

 

"Did O'Connor send you?" he asked, hoping to distract the man while he reached for the gun he kept in his boxspring. "I told him I'd wire the money to him as soon as I could—"

 

"Eames."

 

His voice was quiet, but it grabbed Eames' attention immediately. There was an unidentifiable undertone to the man's voice that had goosebumps skittering across Eames' skin, and he found himself working to suppress a shiver.

 

"No one sent me," he said, after a moment of silence. "I come and go as I please."

 

"Who—" Eames' voice gave out, his throat suddenly too dry. He swallowed and tried again. "Who are you?"

 

The silence stretched out again, this time for what felt like a small eternity, before the stranger replied. "Would you mind turning on a light?"

 

Eames did as he was asked, leaning over to click on his bedside lamp, his eyes never leaving the other man. The light was nearly blinding after the near-perfect darkness of the night, and Eames was forced to blink rapidly to adjust. When his vision cleared again, the breath left his lungs in a shocked rush.

 

The man was all clean lines and sharp angles, looking impeccable in a suit despite the lateness of the night. What really caught Eames attention, though, were the large wings, as sleek and dark as a raven's, that were folded neatly against the stranger's back. They did nothing to help him regain his ability to breathe.

 

"Angel," Eames said in a small, strangled voice. "Shit."

 

The angel's lips lifted in the tiniest of smiles. "Does that answer your question?"

 

Eames could only manage a nod.

 

"So you know why I'm here?"

 

A couple hundred years ago, angels were considered a good omen, and those who saw one were held in high respect. Now, though, it was known that angels appeared before someone for a single reason: their death was in the near future.

 

And here Eames was starting to think he'd live to a ripe old age.

 

"How long?" he asked through lips that felt numb.

 

The angel shrugged a shoulder. "Some time in the next year," he said. "I can't get any more specific than that."

 

Less than a year. Eames looked away from the angel and licked his lips. "Okay," he said. "I guess that's better than a day or a week." He looked back at the angel. "What's your name?"

 

"You're taking this rather well," the angel said, one eyebrow raised. "I was expecting at least a small panic attack."

 

"I learned a long time ago that it's better to roll with the punches."

 

"Hm." The angel's expression didn't really change, but Eames thought he could see amusement in his dark eyes. His wings flicked out once before settling against his back again. "I'm called Arthur."

 

Eames nodded, taking a cigarette from the crumpled pack on his nightstand and lighting it. "I'm sure that, under better circumstances, it'd be a pleasure."

 

"Smoking's bad for your health, you know," Arthur said, nodding at the cigarette.

 

"I know," Eames said, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling. "But I have it under good authority that I don't have that long to live, anyway."

 

=

 

Eames didn't even try to sleep after that, and got up to get some work done instead. Arthur followed him into his office but didn't say anything while Eames worked on making his latest passport look flawless. He seemed to realize that Eames wasn't particularly interested in talking to him. A few hours after dawn, Eames downed a few cups of black coffee and headed out into the day, Arthur his winged shadow.

 

"So," Eames said, "I'm assuming you know what I do."

 

"I know a lot about you," Arthur said, attention seemingly more on passersby than the conversation at hand. It didn't escape Eames' notice, though, that his wings had gone tense and poised, like he was expecting an attack.

 

"Bit of a stalker, hey?"

 

Arthur gave Eames a look that was a mixture of confusion and amusement. "I was assigned to you when you first came into existence. I've picked up a few things about you during that time."

 

Eames blinked at Arthur. "Everyone gets their own angel?"

 

"Yes." Arthur tilted his head. "You didn't realize that?"

 

"I just never thought we'd be worth individual attention," Eames said with a shrug. "Death is death, when you get down to it. A personalized escort seems a little excessive."

 

"Each person is worth the attention," Arthur said. "You're worth the attention."

 

"I know I am."

 

Arthur's eyes suddenly hardened, becoming cold and assessing. "Do you?"

 

Eames couldn't answer right away, taken aback by Arthur's sudden shift in attitude. Arthur continued to watch him, gaze unwavering. After a long moment, Eames managed to unstick his tongue and say, "Yes, of course."

 

Arthur snorted. "Please," he said, the faintest smile on his lips. "There's a reason you show so much bravado when you work with others."

 

"Be that as it may," Eames said, "it doesn't mean I'm willing to dig through the reasons behind that, all right?"

 

He sounded terse and defensive, but he couldn't help it. Eames never enjoyed someone cutting through all of his defenses, and this angel wasn't an exception. It was true that his self-worth wasn't exactly the best, but it was also something that he liked to keep to himself and ignore when he could.

 

Arthur seemed to finally pick up on that, because after studying Eames' face for another moment, he returned his attention to the people around them.

 

"You're a criminal," Arthur said. "A forger and a thief, if you'd like some specificity."

 

It was a poor attempt at a topic change, but Eames appreciated the effort. Taking a deep breath, Eames put the last few minutes out of mind.

 

"Right,” he said. “My lot aren't exactly comfortable with any unplanned events." Eames gave Arthur a pointed look. "It can also fuck up my reputation if a job falls through on my account."

 

Arthur smiled enigmatically, wings flaring out before settling into a more relaxed position. "Don't worry," he said. "It'll be like I'm not even there."

 

=

 

Arthur wasn't kidding. When Eames walked into the cramped apartment that was currently acting as his team's base of operations, Cobb greeted Eames without a second glance. Hell, his eyes actually slid over the space Arthur was occupying without seeing anything. Eames didn't say anything about it, just glanced behind him to make sure Arthur was still there. He was, and looking the tiniest bit smug in the wake of Eames' confusion.

 

"Son of a bitch," Eames murmured. He was the only one who could see Arthur.

 

"What was that?" Cobb asked, frowning distractedly at the bank plans scattered over his work table.

 

"Just talking to myself again," Eames said, keeping his voice light. "You know us artist-types, always playing with a card less of a full deck."

 

Cobb hummed absent agreement before falling silent. Eames, now unwatched, fixed a steady glare at Arthur. Arthur didn't say anything in his defense, simply flicking his wingtips like he had last night. Eames was starting to get the feeling that meant Arthur was silently laughing at him. Muttering another curse, he threw his bag onto his desk and settled in. The job was in a few weeks, and Eames wasn't going to let the addition of an annoying angel in his life trip him up.

 

Within the hour he was so deep into the forgery he was working on that he'd all but forgotten about the angel sitting beside him. Arthur was obligingly silent, taking turns watching Eames work and watching the room in general. The only time he visibly reacted to something was when Mal came in around noon, bearing food and more intel on the bank they were planning on robbing. She dropped off Eames' food with an airy laugh and a kiss to the crown of his head before flitting off to tend to her husband. Eames watched her go before turning back to his desk. A glance at Arthur, though, froze him entirely.

 

Arthur had straightened in his seat, wings partially spread and tense, his gaze fixed unblinkingly at Mal. His lips were thinned to the point that they were going white, and his eyes had gone hard again.

 

Eames turned his back to the room before asking, "Everything all right there, Arthur?"

 

Arthur didn't turn to look at him, still staring at Mal. His wings flared out a little bit more, and were now partially blocking the room from view. This troubled Eames enough to risk saying Arthur's name a little louder. The Cobbs might end up thinking Eames was a little crazy, but it was worth it if it prevented an angel attack.

 

Luckily Arthur turned to him this time, blinking like he had briefly lost track of what was going on. After a moment Arthur focused on Eames' face and his expression smoothed out again, his wings folding and settling against his back, the picture of relaxed. Eames raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry, but Arthur only shook his head. Whatever it was that unsettled him about Mal, he wasn't too keen on sharing.

 

Eames could respect that, but still, "Is this going to interfere with the job?" he asked, voice quiet again.

 

Arthur shook his head again. "We'll be fine," he said. Glancing down at Eames' work, he smirked a little and brushed a finger over the fake ID Eames just finished. "That's not how you spell 'Milwaukee,' by the way."

 

Eames let out a noise of exasperation. "And you couldn't tell me before the ink had dried?"

 

"I didn't want to interrupt your workflow," Arthur said with a shrug.

 

"Bullshit, you just wanted to…" Eames trailed off into a string of displeased muttering as he went about fixing the issue. After giving Mal one last worried glance, Arthur settled in next to Eames to give him a few other pointers.

 

=

 

Everything went off without a hitch. As Eames played the part of a wealthy account holder who'd lost access to a huge chunk of his estate and was willing to cause a scene about it, the Cobbs quietly worked their way around the bank's security system and into the safety deposit boxes. By the end of the hour, the bank had been relieved of a few million dollars and Eames was walking down the bank's front steps, satisfied by a job well done.

 

Arthur, having chosen to stay outside and avoid the risk of becoming a distraction, neatly fell in step next to Eames at the bottom of the stairs. "It went well?"

 

"Perfectly," Eames said, flashing Arthur a crooked smile. "Nothing like making a million before teatime."

 

Arthur hummed, hands in his pockets. "Where to now?" he asked.

 

"We'll catch up to the Cobbs to collect our money. Then home," Eames said, "just until the heat is off. And then after that, who knows?"

 

"You're not planning on retiring?" Arthur asked, looking more curious than surprised. "A lot of people do, when their angel shows up."

 

"I'm not a lot of people. I'd be bored out of my skull by the second day. And besides," Eames said, "don't think I didn't notice the help you gave me during the job."

 

That earned him a faint smile. "And?"

 

" _And_ , I think we'd make a pretty good team."

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do you, now?"

 

Eames raised his own eyebrow in return. "Am I wrong?"

 

After a brief staring contest, Arthur shook his head and looked away. "Outside of a person's death, angels aren't permitted to interfere with human actions," he said. "Especially illegal ones."

 

"Wait, so 'thou shalt not steal' is accurate for you guys?"

 

Arthur shrugged, and Eames couldn't help his huff of incredulous laughter. By the way Arthur's wings were puffing up, he didn't see what was so funny with his moral alignment.

 

Before Arthur could get any more worked up, Eames said, "I may not precisely be a stickler for the rules, but it doesn't mean I'll force you to do what I do."

 

Arthur's wings were still tense, but his feathers smoothed down again. He sighed softly. "All right."

 

"Of course," Eames said, "seeing as you're pretty much attached to me at the moment, you _will_ have to continue being exposed to the less than legal aspects of my career choice."

 

Arthur just stared at him.

 

Eames put on his best innocent smile. "I hope that isn't too much of an issue."

 

"You," Arthur started, but seemed unable to finish his thought. He shook his head once, a sharp motion, and bit out a, "Fine."

 

"I knew you'd see it my way." They'd arrived at the apartment building, and Eames went digging for his keys. "Now, we'll just finish up here and get on our way to London—"

 

"Eames."

 

The smile on his face faded at the hesitant tone in Arthur's voice, and Eames turned back around without opening the door. Arthur was watching him, gaze steady. Only the constant twitching of his wings gave away his uncertainty.

 

"How," Arthur said, before shaking his head and trying again. "Are you close to the Cobbs?"

 

"Dom's a decent bloke, but he's not exactly a good friend," Eames answered, wary. "I grew up knowing Mal, though. She's like a sister to me."

 

Arthur's wings went still before drooping the slightest bit. "I see," he said, voice giving away nothing.

 

Eames' eyes narrowed, mind flashing back to Arthur's initial reaction to Mal and connecting that to the current line of questions. "Is there something I should know about?"

 

"No," Arthur said quickly, not quite making eye contact. "I was just… wondering. You work very well with them."

 

Arthur's face was blank, and his wings had gone still against his back, leaving Eames nothing to read. Shaking his head, he said, "They're some of the best in the business."

 

"From what I've seen, so are you."

 

Eames snorted, turning to finally unlock the door. "If you say so."

 

"I do," Arthur said, voice nearly inaudible.

 

Eames chose to ignore it. Giving Arthur a grin, he said, "Come on, then, places to go, things to steal."

 

He hurried on up the stairs, Arthur easily keeping pace with him.

 

=

 

At first, Arthur stuck to his word, doing his best to avoid Eames' illegal activities. He would go with Eames to where the team was working, but he would also stay in a back corner of the workplace, wings held tight to his back, facing firmly away from the group of criminals. During the actual job, Arthur disappeared entirely, finding Eames after the deed was done. He never said anything, never passed judgment, but sometimes Eames wondered if it ever go to Arthur.

 

It _was_ getting to Arthur, but not in the way Eames was expecting. Four or five jobs after meeting Arthur, Eames looked up from the letter he was painstakingly writing in the mark's handwriting and nearly jumped right out of his seat. Arthur had moved from his usual spot in the corner and was now sitting at the other side of Eames' desk. He raised an eyebrow at Eames' reaction.

 

"It's more comfortable to sit here," Arthur said, tone faintly challenging.

 

"I didn't realize angels were big on comfort," Eames said.

 

Arthur shrugged, but said nothing else. After a moment of silence, Eames shrugged as well and bent back over his work. The mark's Js were proving more difficult to emulate than he expected.

 

For the next hour, Eames' skin prickled with the sense of being watched, but every time he looked up, Arthur was staring at the far wall. It got to the point where Eames got up for coffee just for the excuse to leave the desk without Arthur complaining about his jumpiness.

 

When he came back from his impromptu break, he found Arthur leaning over the desk, studying Eames' work and the original sample of the mark's handwriting. Smiling, Eames kept his steps light and quiet, approaching Arthur from behind. Arthur's wings were twitching, slightly spread, mirroring their owner's interest.

 

"Something catch your eye?"

 

Arthur jumped a near foot in the air, wings snapping out to their full extent before settling back. When he turned to glare at Eames, Eames met him with a smile.

 

"Sometimes it's good to get a second opinion," Eames said. "Just in case the first person gets too tired to notice the details."

 

Arthur watched Eames warily, waiting to see if this would turn into teasing. When it didn't, he turned back to the documents he'd been studying when Eames came in.

 

"Here," he said, tapping the letter Eames was writing. "In the last two sentences, your words keep straightening out. The mark uses more of a slant to the left."

 

"Ah." Eames rounded the desk and immediately saw the problem. Giving Arthur a pointed look, he said, "Well, if someone hadn't been so intent on staring at me this last hour, I may have picked up on it earlier."

 

Arthur kept his gaze on the desk, but Eames could see the faint hints of color lighting up his ears and cheekbones. Eames leaned forward, trying to meet Arthur's eyes.

 

"So," he said, keeping his tone neutral, "do you want to help me?"

 

Arthur looked more unsure now than Eames had ever seen him. His eyes flit across Eames' face, his shoulders tense, wings half-unfurled. Finally, he looked away again, his wings relaxing a fraction, and he nodded.

 

"Brilliant." Eames sat down and shuffled through the papers on his desk. After a moment he slid a folder in Arthur's direction. "The mark's phone records. We know he calls his bookie at least once a week, but we can't pinpoint it, exactly. See what you can figure out."

 

Arthur fell into his work eagerly, flipping open the file and giving it his full attention. Eames gave Arthur a look that was borderline affectionate before going back to his forgeries. They worked well into the night that way and, when they came back the day after, went back to the same thing. To Eames, it felt like a puzzle piece cleanly locking into place. He couldn't ask for anything different.

 

=

 

Eames wasn't much for staying in one place in the following months, sticking to smaller heists so that he could keep moving without needing to take a break in between. If people noticed his sudden spike in activity, they made no mention of it. Eames was glad. He wasn't entirely sure what reason he would give, if someone came out and asked him what was going on.

 

Arthur followed his person around the globe without question, and actually seemed to look forward to each job, now that he was allowing himself to have a bit of fun. He still refused to actively participate, disappearing when the job actually happened, but he was fine with working out details, with planning and strengthening the ideas the rest of the team proposed. He was brilliant with details and genius at what he did, even if Eames was the only one who could see and talk to him. And even that wasn't worth a complaint, honestly. The only hitch in the partnership—if it could even be called a hitch—was the way Arthur went all tense and quiet whenever they worked with the Cobbs. Arthur never said anything, though, so Eames decided that it wasn't worth worrying about.

 

Three months after Arthur showed up, Eames was listening to Cobb sobbing over the phone and regretting his decision to ignore it.

 

He wasn't doing much better, as soon as he managed to decipher what Cobb was trying to tell him, but he kept it together long enough to ask a few questions. Once he had the information he wanted, he hung up without a goodbye and tossed his phone onto a nearby armchair. He took a breath, held it, and let it out slowly. It sounded shaky, but it would have to do. He turned around.

 

He and Arthur had been working on the plans for a quick art theft when Eames got the call, and Arthur was still sitting on the couch, flicking through images on a tablet, absorbed in whatever he was looking over. Eames considered trying another deep breath, but then figured that there was no way to really prepare himself for this conversation.

 

"Mal is dead."

 

Arthur put down the tablet and looked up at Eames, hands clasped together. He didn't say anything.

 

"Dom hired someone new without checking her background," Eames said. "She sold them out. Dom got out, Mal didn't. They questioned her and when she didn't readily give any answers, threw her off a God damned roof."

 

Arthur just watched Eames, still silent.

 

There was no way to ask delicately, so Eames just plunged on ahead. "Did you know?" he said. "When you first met her, did you know?"

 

Arthur didn't even blink. "Yes."

 

Eames could feel the blood drain from his face. He had anticipated the answer, but there was a difference between guessing and _knowing_. Shakily, he moved to sit before his knees gave out on him.

 

"Her angel was already there," Arthur said, looking down at his hands. "I knew she didn't have long."

 

Eames buried his head in his hands.

 

"I didn't know how long, though. Not until the last time we worked with them. Her angel told me you wouldn't see her again."

 

Eames couldn't deal with this. He felt like he was going to fall apart, held together by the barest of threads. "You didn't say anything," he said. "Was that a conscious choice, or were you not allowed?"

 

"It was a choice."

 

"Why?" Eames' voice cracked dangerously, and there was nothing he could do about it. "Damn it, _why_?"

 

Arthur looked up at Eames again, expression solemn, yet considering. After a minute or so, he seemed to come to a conclusion, and he looked away again. "You are not my first person," he said.

 

Eames blinked, confused by the sudden change in topic. "What?"

 

"Angels live for a long, long time," Arthur said. "An eternity, really. And while we do only attend to one human at a time, we go through many of them in our lifetime. Do you follow?"

 

"Yes," Eames said. "But what—"

 

"About three centuries ago," Arthur said, overriding Eames' question, "my charge was a man who had an older brother. He idolized his brother, and loved him with every part of his being. He took my appearance in stride, much like you did. He had a business to run and a family to care for, so he didn't let me affect his life too much."

 

Arthur sighed, the sound barely audible. "His brother's angel appeared a month later."

 

Something in Eames' chest tightened. "What happened?" he said.

 

"It was the first time I'd dealt with a charge with a sibling that was also going to die soon. The brother's angel seemed to understand what I was planning and advised against it, but I didn't listen. I was still too emotionally involved with my humans, at that part of my life. I cared too much, and that led me to make a horrible mistake."

 

"You told him," Eames said.

 

Arthur's shoulders sagged in defeat. "He went mad. I tried to tell him that there was no way to circumvent his brother's death, but he wouldn't listen. Charles, he… went so far as to try to hurt his brother, make it so that he was physically incapable of leaving his house and stepping into the dangers of the outside world."

 

Eames fell back in his seat. "Christ."

 

"The plan went awry, and his brother died," Arthur said. His dark eyes were haunted. "Realizing his error, Charles took his own life."

 

Eames stared at Arthur in shock. Arthur shrugged and looked away, his wings hunched protectively around his shoulders.

 

"Do you understand now," Arthur said, "why I would hesitate to tell my human that someone close to them also has their angel?"

 

Eames could only nod. His head was a roiling mess of confusion, and his heart hurt more than it ever had, but there was nothing he could do or say to argue in the face of Arthur's story.

 

"Mal knew her death was near," Arthur went on, "but she kept going. Because of that, and because of how you held her in close regard—you said yourself that she was like a sister to you—I chose not to say anything. I had inadvertently harmed a past charge by doing so, and I am not eager to do it again."

 

"I'm sorry," Eames said, voice nothing more than a raspy whisper. "I didn't know."

 

Arthur shrugged. "There was no way for you _to_ know. Just understand that what I did was out of kindness. And if you must lay your anger somewhere, place it on me. I don't want you to hate Mal's decision. Not when you loved her so much."

 

"All right," Eames said. He felt a few tears escape his eyes, but did nothing to brush them away. "But this doesn't mean I'm happy with losing her."

 

"I know." Arthur got up and moved to Eames' side. He put a hand on Eames' shoulder and said, "If it helps at all, I can tell you she was at peace when it happened."

 

It didn't help—in fact, it made the pain in his chest even sharper—but Eames appreciated the knowledge. He reached up and covered Arthur's hand with his own, head bowed, crying freely now. "Thank you."

 

Arthur flared out his wings in a protective gesture, and they were a comforting presence at Eames' back. "Don't mention it."

 

=

 

They went to Mal's funeral, giving Eames the chance to say goodbye to his best friend, and then they went right back to taking jobs. Eames slowed his pace down a bit, taking breaks in between heists to have some time to himself. After he wrapped up and got paid, he would take a couple days just to explore the city he was currently in before moving on. It was nice, he realized, and a relief after his previous breakneck working speed.

 

Arthur didn't comment on the change, though he did appreciate the days when they would wander through the streets, taking in the sights. He had a particular interest in architecture, Eames found, taking time to pause and study the cathedrals in Rome and Paris, the skyscrapers in Los Angeles and New York. Arthur also liked to watch people, almost as much as Eames did. Arthur's focus wasn't on mannerisms and habits, though. He told Eames that he watched humans because of their _humanity_. Eames had a feeling he shouldn't have found that as charming as he did.

 

On nights when they weren't on a job, they would stay in Eames' flat and share a bottle of wine. Arthur always loosened up after a couple of glasses, and he was willing to share stories about the humans he had been assigned in the past.

 

It was one such night that found Eames bent double on the couch, laughing so hard that he thought his stomach would burst from the force of it. "Wait," he said, gasping, trying to get a hold of himself. "Wait, you're saying that—"

 

"Freud thought I was his subconscious trying to cope with some childhood brush with death," Arthur said. His voice was deadpan, but he was grinning, dimples on display. "Also that I was the result of his being far too involved in Christianity."

 

Eames' laughter came back at that, and it took him a while before he could speak again. Arthur waited it out before adding, "Besides that, he was decent enough. He calmed down a bit closer to the end, and we did have a lot of interesting conversations about his theories of the mind and dreams."

 

"Sounds like you've had some interesting people in the past," Eames said. "I must pale in comparison."

 

Arthur shrugged, his wings rustling with the movement. "They were interesting," he said, "in the context of the effects they had on history and the world around them. Personality-wise, though? Most of them fell a little flat."

 

Eames hummed softly, thinking. "From my experience, there's no such thing as a 'flat' person. Everyone's dynamic. You just need to figure out how."

 

"I had no desire to figure it out," Arthur said. "Also, impartiality is part of my job."

 

Eames looked at the bottle of wine sitting between them and at Arthur's open and relaxed body language, before looking up at Arthur's face, eyebrow raised.

 

Arthur snorted at Eames' scrutiny. "It's a suggestion, not a hard-set rule."

 

"Ah," Eames said, "but it must be a suggestion for a reason."

 

Arthur shook his head, his expression sobering. "It's harder to watch someone die if you care about them," he said. His words were soft, almost sad. "It can lead to an angel doing something particularly stupid, which can have some horrible consequences."

 

Arthur's mood was catching, and Eames found himself leaning forward. Pitching his voice a little lower, he asked, "What sort of consequences?"

 

"It's," Arthur faltered, and he looked away, wings tucked closely against his back in a self-protective gesture. After a moment to collect himself, he said, "It's not unheard of for an angel to lose their wings over something like that."

 

Eames raised his eyebrows at that. Arthur's wings were sleek and lovely, dark as shadow and soft as velvet. Not only that, but they were as much a part of Arthur as the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled or the gentle curl of his hair free of product. It was difficult for Eames to grasp the image of Arthur without his wings.

 

"And at that point," Arthur said in response to Eames' continued silence, "an angel runs a very high risk of dying."

 

"Dying?" Eames echoed, not even trying to keep the shock out of his voice.

 

"Our wings are important," Arthur said. He kept his eyes fixed on his hands, which were busy fiddling with his wine glass. "Not only for flight, but for our connection to the afterlife, and its energy. Without that link, we can die."

 

Eames was stunned into silence again. With a shake of his head, he gathered himself enough to say, "You keep saying things like 'can' die. Is there a way to keep an angel alive at that point?"

 

"I've heard a bond with a human can save an angel. Of course," Arthur smiled, and it was anything but happy, "the human has to be right there, and willing to do it. If not, then there's no chance for a bond, and no time to find someone else who may be all right with it. Like I said, it's a severely high risk."

 

Eames leaned back, thoughts whirling at all of this new information. "It must be worth the risk sometimes, right? With the right human?"

 

Arthur's wings went tense, feathers puffing out the slightest bit, but his face remained impassive. He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Perhaps," he said. "Personally, I hadn't met a human who made it worth consideration."

 

Arthur's choice of words wasn't lost on Eames, and he started a little. He couldn't help the way he whispered back, "Hadn't?"

 

Arthur finally looked away from his hands and up at Eames, expression solemn. His eyes, though, were shining with a mixture of warmth and fear that hurt Eames to look at.

 

"Yeah," Arthur said, voice barely above a whisper.

 

It was all Eames could do to stare at Arthur. He knew he should say something, should either dismiss or accept what Arthur was practically screaming at him with his eyes, but his throat had dried out. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out, and he was left sitting there, mouth gaping a little, still staring at Arthur.

 

Eames wasn't given the chance to recover. Arthur sighed, downed the rest of his glass in a single, long swallow, and stood.

 

"Good night, Mister Eames," he said, gaze locked somewhere over Eames left shoulder.

 

Eames recovered just a second too late, scrambling to stand as well. "Arthur—" he started, but the angel was already gone, disappearing with a flutter of wings.

 

He stared at the space Arthur had been occupying only a moment ago and sat back down. "Shit," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. What the hell was he supposed to do with what Arthur just admitted, especially when Arthur already seemed so afraid of it? This could potentially ruin the easy companionship they had developed over the last few months, and Eames wasn't willing to have that happen. Eames needed to fix this, somehow, but where was Eames supposed to even start? Even if he could think straight at the moment, there really wasn't much he'd be able to do, with Arthur gone to wherever he went to hide.

 

With a sigh, Eames grabbed the mostly-full bottle of wine and drank straight from it. Given what had just happened, he figured that was as good a place as any to start.

 

=

 

When he stumbled out of his bedroom around noon the next day, bleary and a little hungover, Eames found Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, looking like he had never left. He was reading the paper, and pushed a mug of black coffee in Eames' direction without looking up.

 

They needed to talk, Eames knew, but it could wait until he felt a little more human again. He slumped into his usual spot at the table and took the coffee gratefully, finishing the cup in several bracing gulps. He got up as soon as he was finished, angling for the rest of the pot, which was sitting on the counter.

 

"So," Eames said, after finishing half of his next cup, "about last night."

 

He turned to look over his shoulder. Arthur wasn't reading any more, eyes no longer moving across the page, but he still held onto the paper with a grip that was a little too tight. His wings were mostly unfurled, feathers spread and twitching. His face was pale and drawn. Even with all of this visible stress, Arthur's voice was mostly steady when he said, "Yes?"

 

It struck Eames then, how beautiful Arthur was, even when he was terrified. It was an unexpected revelation, but a true one all the same.

 

And with that, Eames lost his nerve.

 

Turning back to top off his coffee, face safely out of Arthur’s line of sight, Eames said, "I got a call from a Russian I've worked with before. She's got something that's a little more long-term than we usually go for, but the payoff should be more than worth it."

 

The soft rustling behind him was all Eames needed to know that Arthur was relaxing, wings folding back down to their normal position as the tension left them. After a long silence Arthur said, "I haven't been to Russia since before their revolution."

 

"Then it should be a good learning experience for you," Eames said, turning back to Arthur. He wanted to talk about last night, felt like it was important, but for now he could ignore it. He didn't want to scare Arthur into running again. So until that conversation happened, Eames could pretend that nothing was wrong. He forced an easy smile on his face as he sat back down at the table

 

"Now," Eames said, "what do you know about Fabergé eggs?"

 

=

 

The Russia job was just enough work to be a significant distraction from everything else. Eames' associate, a severe woman by the name of Ilyana, had been hired to steal one of the remaining original Fabergé eggs from a CEO who, of course, claimed to not have the piece of art in the first place. Ilyana had found where the egg was being kept, but the amount of security surrounding it made her balk, which is when she'd called Eames in. Eames, with Arthur's help, was to learn the security system inside and out and provide a perfect replica of the Fabergé egg. Ilyana would do the actual heist, but she was willing to give Eames a very generous cut of the payout for his help.

 

Once they reached Moscow, Eames focused on recreating the egg, leaving Arthur to deal with the security. Arthur took to disappearing during work hours, leaving files of his findings on Eames' desk while Eames wasn't around. At night, when they went back to Eames' hotel, interactions were stripped to the bare minimum, and anything Arthur said was bland, impersonal, and curt. It hurt Eames a little, to have Arthur treating him like a stranger, but he could guess at why Arthur was doing it. At this point Arthur had arrived a little more than six months ago, and Eames' time had to be short. It would do little good for Arthur to allow himself to get further attached to his human.

 

Even knowing all of this, sometimes it was all Eames could do to not grab Arthur by the shoulders and _demand_ that they go back to the way things were, before Russia. Before that night in London. But he doubted that that was even possible.

 

Which is why it startled him, three weeks into the job, when Arthur showed up out of nowhere, looking frazzled and rushed.

 

Eames jumped at Arthur's appearance, nearly knocking the piece he'd been engraving off of his desk. When he caught a good look at Arthur's expression, he straightened up, alarmed. Arthur hadn't shown this much emotion in over a month.

 

"Arthur?" Eames said, when it appeared that Arthur was only going to stare at him. "What's the matter?"

 

"We've been made," Arthur said, shoulders tense. "Zarykov knows his art collection's been targeted and is using his underworld connections to sniff out the details. They should figure out who by—"

 

"Wait," Eames said, holding out a quelling hand towards Arthur. "Hold on. He doesn't know any details yet?"

 

Arthur blinked and tilted his head the tiniest bit, brow furrowed in confusion. "No," he said.

 

"So we still have time to get the job done."

 

"Yes," Arthur said, sighing. His wings twitched restlessly. "But now you've a matter of days, not weeks. The danger alone is too much."

 

Eames shrugged. "I've done more dangerous things on less time. It'll be fine."

 

"You don't know that." Arthur's voice had risen a little as he struggled for control. "Have you forgotten that you have an _angel_ following you around right now? I'm not here because we're best friends, you know."

 

The throwaway comment hurt Eames more than he was expecting, and it made his next question come out a lot harsher than he meant it to. "Is it my time, then? Is this it?"

 

Arthur's jaw clenched. "You know I can't tell you that," he said.

 

"Then I guess I'll have to risk it."

 

"Eames!" Arthur was definitely losing his patience now, wings spread in a display of dominance, eyes flashing dangerously. "Will you please just _trust me_ when I say this is important?"

 

Eames turned away from Arthur, going back to his work. "No, Arthur," he said. "Unless you've decided to tell me something, I'm going through on this job."

 

Arthur's struggle to keep his temper was near palpable, even when Eames had his back turned to him. Then, with a "fine" that sounded more like a growl than anything else, Arthur walked out, slamming the door as he did.

 

As soon as he was alone, Eames put down his tools and rubbed at his eyes. Eames might be angry at Arthur for virtually ignoring him since the beginning of the job, but that didn't mean it was a good idea to not at least take Arthur's warnings into consideration. Eames would tell Ilyana about the new threat, they'd double their pace, and hopefully get the job done before the mark figured out what, exactly, was going on. Then Eames could show Arthur that he could take care of himself, even with death literally following him around every day.

 

Feeling a little bit more settled about everything—but only a little—Eames tried to clear his mind as best as he could and went back to work.

 

=

 

Five days later, Eames was leaning against the wall of one of Moscow's back alleys, bleeding out, all thoughts of proving himself self-sufficient forgotten.

 

They'd almost made it, had even planned to execute the heist the next day, but Zarykov had been that little bit faster. Zarykov's men attacked their base a little past midnight, first with a flash grenade, then with guns. Ilyana had died within the first five minutes, but Eames was able to reach his gun in time and carve out an escape route. He almost thought he was going to make it out when three separate bullets hit him in quick succession, one in the lung and two in the gut. Eames kept running until his wounds made it impossible, but he wasn't followed. The men must've figured he wasn't going to survive his wounds, and the chase wouldn't be worth it.

 

From the way Eames was feeling, they were right about that.

 

A cough rattled Eames' frame, blood spraying from his mouth and onto the pavement. The motion hurt like hell, tearing at his chest and stomach alike. Exhaustion washed over him and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement, hand pressed to his stomach in a feeble attempt to staunch the bleeding. This was it, he realized. There was no one around, no last-minute rescue running towards him. Eames was going to die.

 

"Can't say I didn't have any warning," Eames told himself, voice nothing more than a rasp. He coughed again. It was too bad that Arthur wasn't around to say that he'd been right.

 

" _Eames!_ "

 

Speak of the devil. Or angel, really. Eames shakily looked up to find Arthur sprinting towards him, wings tucked close to his back and what looked like fear on his face. He went to his knees as soon as he reached Eames, looking him over but not reaching out to touch.

 

"You stubborn bastard," Arthur said, voice tight. "Why couldn't you have just listened?"

 

"Thought it'd be all right," Eames managed to say. "Arthur—"

 

"Shut up," Arthur snapped, finally reaching out to touch around Eames' wounds with light fingers. "Stop talking, you'll make it worse."

 

Eames shook his head, and dizziness washing over him, greying out his vision for a second. Once he could see again, he said, "You're angry."

 

Arthur's eyes met his for a second before returning to the holes in Eames' gut. "Yes."

 

"Don't." Eames tried to smile, but he doubt it looked very convincing, what with the blood on his lips. "S'my time. Right?"

 

"No."

 

Eames' eyes had been closing, but they snapped open again at that. "What?"

 

"This is not your time," Arthur said. He clenched his hands into fists, unmindful of the blood on his fingers. His face was pale and drawn. "You're not supposed to die here, not like this. This wasn't… it's not _right_."

 

This time, when Arthur met Eames' gaze, he held it. "You aren't going to die. Not right now."

 

Eames' smile felt a little more genuine this time around. "M'touched," he muttered. "Sorry to… disappoint…"

 

His muscles went slack without his permission, and he would've sprawled full-out on the pavement if Arthur hadn't been there to gently lower him instead. He was so weak, and so _tired_ , the world around him feeling so much less there than it had a moment before. Everything hurt less, at least, his chest and stomach easily ignorable. Hell, Eames felt like he could just go right to sleep, now.

 

Strong fingers grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard. Eames' eyes fluttered open—when had they closed?—to find Arthur knelt over him, wings fully spread. Did he look afraid? Maybe. It was hard to tell, Eames' vision was going blurry.

 

"Dammit Eames," Arthur said. "Don't you dare, it's not time—"

 

Eames closed his eyes again, lids too heavy to keep up. From what seemed like a million miles away, he heard what sounded like his name, laced with fear and desperation. That was unimportant, though. Right now he just wanted to sleep. He felt himself beginning to sink away.

 

An iron-like hand gripped his jaw, forcing him back into the present. His face was tilted up and then something else was pressing against his mouth. It was another mouth, kissing him, breathing into him. Something that felt like molten gold poured into Eames' mouth and down his throat, filling his lungs and stomach with liquid heat. Light bloomed in his mind and behind his eyelids. The light filled him, as did the heat, until he felt like there was nothing else left inside him. Eames' back arched, and he might've screamed if that mouth hadn't still been covering his own.

 

And then it was over. Both hand and mouth released him, letting Eames slump back against the pavement. The heat was still there, but it was fading, and Eames was glad for it. Unconsciousness swiftly replaced it, slamming into him like a wave of darkness, and he let himself be pulled under.

 

=

 

When Eames rose back into consciousness, he found himself staring up at the ceiling of his home flat.

 

"What—" he tried to sit up, but the onslaught of dizziness forced him back down. He glared up at his ceiling, confused and immobile. After taking a few breaths and slowly counting down from ten, Eames attempted moving again, this time only lifting himself up on his elbows enough to inspect himself and his surroundings.

 

It was definitely his bedroom, and he was in bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. Wriggling a bit to get the sheets a little lower on his body, he saw that he was, at least, shirtless. He was no longer riddled with holes, and instead had three patches of freshly healed skin, each roughly the size and shape of a fifty pence piece. When he touched them with light fingers, they throbbed with dull pain, but that was it.

 

"What the hell," Eames muttered.

 

"Good, you're awake."

 

Eames looked up to find Arthur in his doorway, watching him. His body language was relaxed, and his face impassive. Eames couldn't get a read off of him.

 

"What happened?" Eames asked.

 

"You nearly died," Arthur said, without hesitation. He raised an eyebrow when he added, "I told you it was a trap."

 

"No, I remember that part. I meant," Eames gestured at his chest. He remembered a lot of light, and heat, and what felt like a mouth against his, but there was nothing he could coherently put together. "What happened?"

 

This time Arthur did hesitate, his wings twitching a few times as he studied Eames' face. With a sigh, Arthur entered the room and sat down on the edge of Eames' bed. "I saved you. You passed out afterwards, and I brought you home so you could rest."

 

"Oh." Eames struggled to sit all the way up, and Arthur was quick to prop some pillows behind his back. Once he was resettled, Eames said, "I didn't realize you could do that."

 

"It's not really an advertised skill. We're known for death, not life," Arthur said. He glanced at Eames' chest and his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out and touch his handiwork, but his hands stayed in his lap. "You'll have scars, but I figure that's better than the alternative."

 

Eames couldn't help but laugh. "It definitely is."

 

Arthur returned the smile, albeit hesitantly. He glanced at the door, wings twitching again, before he forced himself still. After a moment he said, "You probably have questions."

 

Eames did. Hundreds of them, really. But he didn't want to force it, not when Arthur looked like it would be a miserable experience for him. So instead, Eames leaned back into his pillows and said, "Actually, all I want to say is thank you."

 

Arthur's surprise was visible for only a second before he made his face blank again. He cleared his throat and looked away. "Yes," he said. "Well. It was nothing."

 

Eames placed his hand over Arthur's wrist, waiting until the angel's eyes were back on him. "You saved my life," he said. "That isn't nothing."

 

Something odd must've been showing through Eames' expression, because Arthur's brow furrowed in confusion. "Eames, what—"

 

Before he could rethink his move, Eames lightly gripped Arthur's wrist and tugged him closer, pressing his lips against Arthur's in a chaste kiss. Arthur went still, wings snapping out to their full extent, just long enough for Eames to have a moment of panic—did he remember incorrectly? What if it had just been part of the healing process?—before making a soft noise and leaning into Eames.

 

It stayed gentle, a long moment of lips moving against each other pleasantly, before Eames leaned away. Arthur was flushed and staring at Eames like he had just performed a small miracle.

 

"That was all right," Eames said softly, "right?"

 

"Yes," Arthur breathed, still looking a little stunned. Then he blinked, a little clarity returned to his gaze, and he straightened up from where he was leaning against Eames. Eames, recognizing the look of someone about to bolt, sat up a little more as well.

 

"Arthur," he said.

 

"I need to," Arthur said, standing up. "That wasn't— I mean I—"

 

He took a breath before squaring his shoulders, meeting Eames' eyes levelly. "I'm sorry," he said, and vanished. He didn't go far, though, as Eames immediately heard Arthur's footsteps out in the living room. A moment later his bedroom door closed of its own volition, leaving Eames by himself.

 

Eames settled back down again, silent. Arthur ran away. Again. And with Eames weak as a kitten, there was no way he could get up and try talking to Arthur about it. Besides, even if he _could_ get up, how would Eames ever stop Arthur from flying off to somewhere else, like the other side of the globe? It was like before the Russia job all over again, though it felt like the consequences had been a lot heavier, this time around.

 

"Damn it," Eames said, gripping the counterpane in a shaking, white-knuckled grip. "Damn it all."

 

=

 

Despite his frustration and racing thoughts, Eames fell asleep again. It seemed that being healed by an angel took a lot out of someone. When he woke up, it was night, and he heard voices further out in the flat. Though he couldn't hear the words, he could tell that one of them was Arthur. The other, a female, Eames didn't recognize.

 

Carefully, keeping his recent injuries in mind, Eames rolled out of bed and padded to his bedroom door. Moving slow so as to avoid noise, he opened his door a crack. He could now hear the conversation going on in his living room with perfect clarity.

 

"… Even though it's bullshit," Arthur was saying. He sounded tired and annoyed.

 

"You prevented your human from dying," the unknown female said, keeping her voice even. She sounded young, but there was an undercurrent to her voice that made the hair on the back of Eames' neck prickle. The floor under his feet shook the slightest bit with her words.

 

"It wasn't his time," Arthur said. "His soul is clearly marked, Ariadne. He's not to die until—"

 

"That's not the issue here," the woman, Ariadne, said briskly.

 

"Then what is?"

 

"Your saving him."

 

"It was either that," Arthur said, his words harsh, "or let his early death upset the balance of things. I—"

 

"Arthur." The amount of restrained anger in that one word brought silence for a few moments. Ariadne said, "You didn't save him just to keep the balance intact."

 

"Of course I did," Arthur said. His voice was shaky, though, and not even Eames believed him.

 

Ariadne sighed. "We're concerned that you are becoming," she paused, before finishing with, "emotionally compromised."

 

"I am _not_ emotionally compromised!" Arthur cried. He sounded far beyond annoyance now, clearly enraged by Ariadne's accusation.

 

"You _kissed him_ , Arthur!"

 

"It," Arthur said. Eames winced as Arthur floundered for his next words. "It was the fastest way to facilitate a healing—"

 

"That's bull and you know it," Ariadne said. She sighed. "Arthur. The only reason why I'm reprimanding you instead of ripping the wings right off your back is because you prevented a potential imbalance."

 

There was a long, tense silence. Eames held his breath, suddenly afraid that the two people in there would be able to hear him.

 

"Consider this a warning, Arthur," Ariadne said after a minute or so. "Keep your distance. If you interfere with your human's death again, you won't be given another chance. Understand?"

 

Arthur gave a mumbled reply.

 

"What was that?" Ariadne's voice was sharp enough to cut. The vibrations running through the floorboards intensified.

 

"I understand," Arthur said, words clear this time around.

 

"Good." There was a rustling and the sound of a chair being pushed back as someone stood. "I hope that, next time I see you, it's under better circumstances."

 

"Likewise," Arthur said. His voice sounded strained under his efforts to keep it calm.

 

Eames heard the flutter of wings that marked an angel's departure. A second later he heard Arthur curse under his breath and something crash to the floor.

 

Having heard enough, Eames closed his door and returned to bed. Guilt weighed heavily on him. Thanks to his recklessness, Eames had risked Arthur's wings and, essentially, his life. If Arthur lost everything just because of his attachment to his human, Eames would never be able to forgive himself. Distance was safer for them. Even if Eames hated it when they treated each other like strangers, he was willing to do it to save Arthur's wings.

 

Even with that settled, though, it was hours before Eames managed to find sleep again.

 

=

 

Eames woke again at dawn and, giving up on sleep entirely, moved into his office. Arthur found him a couple hours later, letting himself in without knocking and carrying breakfast.

 

"I thought you'd rest more today," Arthur said as he placed a cup of tea and an omelette at Eames' elbow. "Nearly dying is an exhausting event."

 

"Can't sleep," Eames said, picking up the tea with a grateful noise. His stomach was a little too unsettled for food, but he was never able to refuse tea. After a sip, he added, "Too much going on in my head right now."

 

"What a surprise," Arthur said, straightfaced. When Eames raised an eyebrow at him, though, the corner of Arthur's mouth tilted up faintly and his wings gave a little flick. Arthur then looked down at the papers spread across the desk. "Another job?" he asked.

 

Eames shook his head. "I'm done," he said. "Retired until, well. You know."

 

Arthur hummed, thoughtful. "I thought you said you'd work until the end."

 

"That was before I torn up by a bunch of bullets. Nearly dying kind of reorders your priorities."

 

"So I've heard," Arthur said. He looked back at the desk. "That doesn't explain what all of this is, though."

 

"I know myself well enough to know that I won't be able to stay idle," Eames said. He selected a hand-written page and passed it to Arthur. "And, seeing as I have a fair amount of money left and no one to inherit it, I thought I'd might as well spend it."

 

"A bucket list," Arthur said, after scanning the page in his hand. "Isn't that a little cliche?"

 

"A little," Eames said. "But I figured it was worth a shot."

 

Arthur said nothing, putting the paper back on the desk and studying the other things there—maps, guidebooks, and the like. Eames watched him for a while before clearing his throat. This was it. This was when he did the right thing and made sure Arthur didn't screw himself over for Eames' sake.

 

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," Eames said.

 

Arthur looked up sharply, expression unreadable. His wings snapped open, poised for flight.

 

"I mean," Eames rushed on, unsure why that look made him so nervous, "I know it must get boring, following me everywhere. And I know you really only have to be here for when I die. So don't feel obligated to come with, is what I'm saying."

 

Arthur didn't respond immediately, and instead continued to stare. Eames fiddled with a pen, trying to hide how much Arthur's scrutiny was getting to him.

 

"Eames," Arthur finally said, "there is nothing I would rather do, right now, than follow you."

 

Now it was Eames' turn to stare. He had figured Arthur would guess at Eames' plan and take him up on it, thankful for the distance Eames was trying to enforce. Arthur had gone the exact opposite way, though, and Eames no longer knew how to react.

 

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur asked, "When do you want to start?"

 

The question snapped Eames out of his surprise, and he looked back down at his desk. "Within the week," he said. "I've got a lot I want to do, and, I feel, not a lot of time to do it."

 

Arthur nodded. "I'll start looking into flights."

 

Eames watched Arthur leave the office, still a little dazed. Arthur was going against everything Eames thought he would do. If this kept up, Arthur risked losing his wings. Last night, Eames thought Arthur wouldn't want that. Now, he wasn't so sure.

 

Shaking his head, Eames went back to his planning. He'd figure all of this out when he had the time.

 

=

 

For being an internationally renowned thief, it was actually rare for Eames to travel somewhere with the sole purpose of enjoying himself. He rarely stopped and played tourist when he worked, preferring to getting his work done and moving on instead of seeing the sights. So most of his bucket list consisted of the more cliche things, like touring the Vatican or scuba diving along the Great Barrier Reef. He even managed to visit the Louvre, even though he'd stolen from it more than once, in one way or another. Arthur was particularly on edge during that trip, but nothing came of it.

 

Other stops had more of a personal meaning to Eames. He walked along his family's estate, but only when he knew his family would be at their summer home in Italy. They thought he'd died a decade ago, and he wasn't about to change that belief. Arthur didn't comment when the trip ended on the family gravesite, standing in front of Eames' tombstone. He'd watched Eames his entire life. He already knew all of this, and his silent support was touching in a way anything he said couldn't have been.

 

They were in a cab to Heathrow when Eames' personal cell started ringing. Baffled—he couldn't think of anyone who'd call that rarely used number—he answered with a wary hello.

 

"Oh thank God," Cobb said in a rush. "I didn't know whether or not you'd burned this phone."

 

"Cobb," Eames said, straightening in his seat. He saw Arthur's head turn towards him out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't realize I gave you this number."

 

There was a pause. "Mal had it. I need to talk to you, and none of your other numbers are in service."

 

"I burned them after my last job," Eames said. "It didn't end on friendly terms."

 

"Right, right," Dom muttered. He didn't even try to fake interest. "Look, I need a favor."

 

"Do you now."

 

"I tried to infiltrate Cobol Engineering—"

 

Eames snorted. "Big mistake on your part, mate."

 

"I know," Cobb said with a sigh. "They've chased me across half the US. I'm running out of hiding spots."

 

"That's unfortunate," Eames said, voice dripping with false sincerity. "I'm still not seeing how this affects me."

 

"I heard you managed to steal from Cobol, back in the day."

 

"Yeah." Arthur shifted like he was going to say something, but Eames gestured him back with one hand. He had this under control. "And they still have a price on my head large enough to buy a small island. I'm not interested in messing with them again."

 

"But if that price still exists, then you must have taken something essential," Cobb said. Desperation was leaking into his words. "If you could just tell me one little thing, so I could use it to get them off my backs—"

 

"No."

 

"Eames, please."

 

"I sold everything a week after I got it," Eames said. "I know better than to sit on something that big. Cobol is just a spiteful group of men who can't let go of something that happened ten years ago."

 

Cobb was silent for so long that Eames thought the connection had dropped. He was about to hang up when Cobb said, "I thought you'd help. For Mal's sake if not for anything else."

 

"You bastard," Eames said, shocked and angered by Cobb's attempted manipulation. "Don't you dare use her to get your arse out of trouble. She should be worth more than that to you."

 

"Eames, please listen—"

 

"We're done," he said, voice cold. "And don't try to contact me again."

 

Eames hung up and, not wanting to hear if Cobb would attempt to call back, yanked the batteries out of his phone. That done, he rested his head against the back of his seat with a sigh.

 

"Trouble?" Arthur asked after a moment.

 

"No," Eames said. "Just a brief annoyance. It'll be fine."

 

Arthur nodded, but he looked worried. Before Eames could ask him what was wrong, though, they arrived at the airport. By the time they were out of the cab and making their way towards the terminals, Arthur's expression was smooth again. "Where to now?" he asked, looking up at the board for departures.

 

"The States," Eames said, flashing his ticket at Arthur. "I've always wanted to do that whole road trip across America thing. See the world's biggest ball of twine and all of that."

 

Arthur stared him for a second before shaking his head and smiling. "You," he said, "are the strangest human I've ever met."

 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Eames said, grinning, "seeing as you like me so much."

 

Arthur chose not to answer, instead giving Eames a smile that was so soft that it was borderline affectionate. It did odd things to Eames' chest to see that expression on Arthur's face, so instead of commenting on it, he simply shouldered his bag and led the way to the right terminal.

 

=

 

Eames had prearranged a hired car, so they were able to take off as soon as they landed at JFK. Arthur set up their route during the fourteen-hour flight across the Atlantic, making sure they would drive through the more interesting cities on their way to Los Angeles. They went south, first, following the east coast until they got to Florida, and then they turned west. From there it was a near-straight line to California, save for when something looked interesting enough to be worth the detour.

 

Arthur didn't have much tolerance for what he considered to be "artificial" tourist attractions, which was mainly things humans had a hand in making. While he humored Eames' fascination with museums dedicated to aliens and other oddities, he also made it clear that he wasn't enjoying it. Eames, unable to silence Arthur without looking crazy to every other human present, simply learned how to tune it out.

 

Arthur did love the national parks, though, especially those in the southwestern states. He spent hours examining the fallen stone trees of the Petrified Forest, and even goaded Eames into an arduous hike to see the remnants of a Native American village built high into a cliff face. Eames would have complained, just to spite Arthur, but the visible enthusiasm on Arthur's face stopped him. If Arthur was having fun, then who was he to judge?

 

And then there were the things that they both liked. The diners, tucked away in the small towns that adorned the nation-long highway, that served thick burgers and even thicker shakes. That one drive-in theater they discovered in New Mexico that was having a monster movie marathon. The nights when they were in the middle of nowhere and decided to pull over and just stare up at the stars, talking about life and death and sometimes simply sitting there in silence. And then there were the long, peaceful silences as they drove down the seemingly-endless two-lane highway, nothing in sight except for flat plains or mountains or rivers, the radio on but set to a quiet lull in the background. Those, Eames felt, were the best parts of the trip, and he wouldn't trade them for the world.

 

One thing marred Eames' good mood. The closer they got to California, the quieter Arthur became. He started giving Eames worried looks when he didn't think Eames was looking, and by the time they were crossing the Sierra Nevadas the glances had evolved into full-on staring. Not only that, but every time Eames managed to make Arthur smile or laugh, Arthur would sober far too quickly, his wings drooping as if something upsetting had occurred to him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was wrong, and Eames tried to broach it when they crossed into California proper.

 

"You've been quiet recently," Eames said, not seeing the point in dancing around the problem.

 

"Traveling can be tiring," Arthur said. He was looking out the passenger window, so Eames couldn't see his expression.

 

"I didn't realize angels could get tired."

 

Arthur shrugged, wings rustling quietly with the motion. His feathers were fluffed a little, an early sign of agitation.

 

Eames let the quiet spin out for a little while, keeping his eyes on the road. The traffic had thickened as they'd come through the mountains, and now Eames couldn't let his eyes wander like he could in the vast nothing of the deserts just behind them. Finally, he asked, "Is it soon?"

 

"I can't tell you," Arthur said. His feathers bristled further, giving a more definite answer than his words. "You know that."

 

"Okay," Eames said quickly. He didn't want to start an unnecessary argument. "I understand, and that's fine. However, if it is going to happen soon, I…"

 

His voice gave out as his throat tightened. He swallowed and cleared his throat, which made Arthur turn to look at him. Arthur didn't say anything, but his eyes looked faintly troubled. With a short shake of his head, Eames forced himself to keep going.

 

"If I'm going to die soon, I want you to promise to let it happen."

 

Arthur blanched. Whatever he was expecting Eames to say, it was clearly not this. "What," he began.

 

"You don't have to say anything," Eames said, overriding him. "You don't. But just know that these last few weeks have been the best I've had for a very, very long time. So. Thank you."

 

Arthur didn't say anything, still staring at Eames. Afraid to see the expression on Arthur's face, Eames kept his eyes on the road. Cowardly, yes, but it was the only thing he could think of to do besides just pulling over and running from the car as fast as he could. He never had been able to deal with potential rejection very well.

 

A few minutes later something gently brushed across Eames' knuckles, startling him into looking. Arthur's fingers were tracing his, trying to soothe him out of the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel. Once Eames managed to relax his hand, Arthur pulled it into his lap.

 

"This whole trip has been amazing for me," Arthur said after a moment, playing almost idly with Eames' fingers. "In all of my centuries, I've never had a human quite like you."

 

Arthur's face tightened with grief for a moment, then relaxed. With a quiet sigh, he lifted Eames' hand and pressed a light kiss to the back of it. He then returned Eames' hand to the steering wheel, squeezed it once, and withdrew.

 

"Arthur," Eames said, voice weak. He stopped there, unable to think of anything to say.

 

Arthur shook his head the slightest bit. "Eyes on the road, Mr Eames," he said softly. "I want to finish this in one piece."

 

=

 

Downtown Los Angeles was a treat to explore, with its vast collection of museums, shops, and parks. Eames got a room at the Miyako, a gorgeous hotel right on the edge of Little Tokyo, for a week, with the option to extend his stay. With how much he was enjoying himself, that option might be more necessary than Eames originally thought.

 

Arthur fit right into Los Angeles. He loved the clean lines of the buildings and the grid setup of the streets, the bustle of Little Tokyo and the Fashion District. He was drawn to the variety of people like a moth to a flame, and followed Eames around the city with little complaint. Out and about, Arthur was his usual self, flitting from sight to sight and easily chatting with Eames about that outfit, or this sculpture. Once they returned to the hotel, though, Arthur went quiet, keeping to himself and refusing to engage in conversation with Eames. More often than not he disappeared, and would stay out until Eames got up the next morning. Eames thought the distance would frustrate him, but instead all he felt was a quiet resignation. If he needed any proof that his life was almost over, this was it.

 

Then, on their seventh morning since arriving in Los Angeles, Eames woke up to find Arthur still missing. Eames didn't think much of it, though, as he got up and went about getting ready for the day. Whatever Arthur did at night must have just run a little later than usual.

 

Eames was just setting his tea to brew when there was a brisk knock on the door. There was a brief pause, and then another flurry of knocks. Eames was on high alert at that point. He hadn't told anyone in his circle of friends where he was going to be, these past few weeks. Whoever was on the other side of that door was certainly unwelcome.

 

Keeping his steps light and silent, Eames moved so that he was several feet away from the door. His fingers twitched for a gun, but he'd left them at home when he'd started this trip. "Who is it," he called.

 

The door was kicked in as soon as the words were out of his mouth. A tall brute of a man wearing an off-the-rack suit rushed in, grabbing Eames before he could react and tackling him to the ground. There was a brief struggle, but Eames still ended up pinned to the floor, his attacker's hands around his throat, thumbs pressed to either side of Eames' windpipe.

 

"Cobol sends their regards," the man said, and started squeezing.

 

Whatever Eames planned on saying ended up as nothing but a garbled choke, and his hands went up instinctively to wrap around the man's wrists. He couldn't help but feel a burst of rage towards Cobb. It was obvious he had sold Eames out to Cobol, handing over either his phone number or all of his aliases for tracking purposes. If he got out of this, he'd have to personally give Cobb his thanks.

 

With a grunt of effort, Eames brought his knee up sharply, catching the man in the stomach. The man's air left him in a whoosh, and his grip loosened just enough for Eames to gasp in a ragged breath. Once his lungs were filled, Eames tightened his grip on the man's wrists and heaved his upper body forward, forcing the man over and onto his own back. Eames didn't take the time to beat his assailant into a pulp, only landing a few solid hits before shoving up onto his feet and sprinting out of the room.

 

Eames forwent the elevator entirely, rushing down the stairs and thanking fate for his getting a room on the third floor. He didn't slow until he was on the street outside the hotel. With the rush of foot traffic around him, Eames allowed himself to pause. It was raining, a rare thing in Los Angeles, but it was hard enough that Eames was soaked in moments. He didn't care, though, his eyes darting through the crowd, trying to figure out if the man who attacked him upstairs had any reinforcements.

 

Apparently he did. Eames caught sight of a man and woman standing on the street corner right when the woman pointed him out and said something he couldn't hear. Eames turned and ran, not even waiting to see if they would take up the chase. He shoved through the crowd, ducking umbrellas, heedless of the people yelling after him. When he reached the corner of the block, he only hesitated a second before he took the chance and ran out into the street.

 

He'd almost made it to the opposite corner when the bus appeared, blaring its horn. Eames tried to dodge, but the asphalt was slick with rainwater. He lost his footing, landing on his shoulder hard enough to send a bolt of pain down that arm. It was too late to try to get up again, the bus almost on him. He heard its brakes squeal, but he knew that they would be useless, this close, in this weather. This was it. He wasn't going to die on the job, cut down by enemies. Eames was going to die in a freak accident, killed by a bus that couldn't slow down in time because of the rain. He sighed, closed his eyes, and waited.

 

Something slammed into Eames, but it was from the side, not the front. With a yelp, he skidded further across the street, landing in the small river that was occupying the gutter. Confused, Eames wiped the water from his face and blinked out at the street.

 

Arthur was standing in front of him, wings spread in a challenge, facing the bus with a grim, set expression. The bus passed by them both, leaving less than a foot of space between its wheels and Eames.

 

Eames let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. As soon as the bus was out of sight, Arthur turned and looked down at Eames. His eyes looked haunted, but his mouth was set in a stubborn line.

 

"Holy shit," Eames said, breathless. "Was that—"

 

"Yeah." Arthur pulled Eames to his feet and onto the pavement, out of harm's way. "That was it."

 

Eames was about to say something else—he wasn't sure what, with the daze he was in—when he realized just how _quiet_ the world had gotten. He couldn't hear the rain, or the rush of people and traffic around him. Confused, he looked around to see that everything was frozen in place. People were stuck midstride up and down the pavement. Cars in the street trailed plumes of suspended water behind them. Raindrops hung in the air, letting off sparks of light like so many glass beads.

 

"What," Eames said. He couldn't manage anything else.

 

"Don't panic," Arthur said. His voice was steady, but his restless wings betrayed his nervousness. "You won't be hurt, I promise."

 

"Arthur."

 

Both Eames and Arthur looked in the direction of the voice. Eames recognized it from the night after Arthur had saved him, all those long weeks ago. Standing just a few yards away, in a space clear of people and traffic, was a slight young woman with dark hair and eyes. She wore a suit, a somber gray that matched Arthur's, though she accented her outfit with a bright scarf at her neck. Her wings were those of a barn owl, and they shone with a subtle light that the frozen rain reflected.

 

"Ariadne," Arthur said, inclining his head in greeting.

 

"I thought I'd gotten through to you," Ariadne said, "last time we met."

 

"Obviously you didn't," Arthur said. He shifted a little, lifting a wing so that he shielded Eames.

 

Ariadne sighed, and what look like regret shone in her eyes. "The laws are clear for what is to happen now," she said. She gave the fingers of her right hand a little flick, and a long, wicked-looking dagger appeared in her hand. "I'm sorry."

 

Arthur stepped forward, and Eames saw that he now held a blade similar to Ariadne's. He didn't look back as he said, "Eames. Know that you were worth everything."

 

Not waiting for a reply, Arthur lunged at Ariadne, wings spread, weapon at the ready. He lashed out as soon as he was in range, but Ariadne dodged the attack with an easy grace. She countered with her own blade, and Arthur scrambled to block it. She danced away when he attempted another attack, and he was quick to follow her. They struggled like that, attacking and counterattacking in rapidfire succession. It was clear that Ariadne was the faster of the two of them, even though Arthur was the more brutal. Eames thought, for a moment, that they were an even match. But then Ariadne ducked below Arthur's next slash, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until Arthur could do nothing but wince and drop his weapon.

 

"As always," Ariadne said, "your efforts are to be commended."

 

She continued to twist the arm in her grip, forcing it up behind Arthur's back. Arthur dropped to his knees, wings spread to keep his balance.

 

"Even if they were futile."

 

Arthur didn't say anything in response. He was staring at Eames, and Eames couldn't find the strength to look away. Arthur no longer looked like the steady, confident angel he'd grown to know and care about. Now he simply looked scared, trapped. Defeated.

 

With a swallow, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. Sensing Arthur's surrender, Ariadne let go of his wrist in favor of one of his wings, set her blade where feathers met flesh, and slashed.

 

Light exploded out from the two of them as soon as the blade made the first tear into Arthur's wings, blinding Eames. He shut his eyes, blocking out the light, but he could still hear what was going on. There was the sound of flesh being ripped apart, of bones snapping and being ground down to dust. Arthur's screams were harsh, pitched high from pain, and seemingly without end. Eames was beginning to think he'd go mad when Arthur's cries began to taper off into jagged sobs which then almost immediately stopped. The silence was deafening. Eames bore it for only a handful of heartbeats before he risked opening his eyes.

 

The world was still suspended, but Ariadne was gone. Arthur was on the ground where the both of them had been, lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. His wings were gone.

 

With a small cry, Eames ran over. He went to his knees next to Arthur and rolled him onto his back.

 

Arthur screamed again as his back touched the pavement, body bowing almost convulsively from the pain. Eames, not knowing what else to do, heaved Arthur into a sitting position. It relieved the pressure from Arthur's wounded back, and he leaned into Eames with a ragged sob.

 

"You fool," Eames murmured. "Why did you go and do that to yourself?"

 

"I told you," Arthur said, voice weak and cracked from his screams. "You're worth it."

 

"Even now?" Eames said. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt and the knees of his pants, even if he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

Arthur shuddered, and when he spoke his voice was even weaker. "Even now."

 

Eames shifted until he could look at Arthur's face. Arthur was deathly pale, shadows bright under his eyes, his breathing shallow. He was fading fast. "Okay," Eames said, "tell me what to do."

 

Arthur blinked slowly, and it looked like an effort to drag his eyes open again. "What?"

 

"The bond. The one that'll save your life. Tell me how to make it."

 

That got a little more awareness back into Arthur's eyes. "Eames," he said, "don't feel obligated to do this."

 

"I don't," Eames said with a scowl. "I want to."

 

"I went in expecting to die," Arthur rasped. He didn't appear to have heard Eames. "It's fine, all right, so please don't force yourself—"

 

He cut himself off with a small grunt of pain as Eames' grip around his shoulders tightened. "Get it through your thick skull," Eames said, voice barely above a growl. "I'm not doing this out of obligation, or coercion, or any of that. I'm doing this because I want to. I'm _willing_ , Arthur. All you have to do is take it."

 

Arthur's eyes flicked searchingly across Eames' face. "You mean it," he whispered. "You— Why—"

 

"Because _you're_ worth it, too," Eames said. "Can't we leave it at that?"

 

The tension left Arthur's face, to be quickly replaced with a smile that lit him up in a way that was almost painful to look at. "You're impossible," he said.

 

"Says the man who's keen on dying," Eames said. "Now would you kindly tell me how to do this so you don't bleed out during our declarations—"

 

Laughing, albeit weakly, Arthur hooked a hand around the back of Eames' neck and pulled. "Like this," he said, before pressing Eames' mouth against his own.

 

Eames closed his eyes on instinct, and that was just as well. The moment their lips met there was another explosion of light, though this one was less painful than the last. It filled Eames up until he felt like he was drowning in it. He didn't panic, though, and didn't fight. He just took a breath, pressed closer to Arthur, and let himself fall.

 

=

 

"Really?"

 

Arthur's brows pinched together, but he didn't look up from his feet. It was taking him a good amount of effort to walk, even with Eames helping him along. It had taken them triple the time it should have to return to their hotel. "Really what?" he said.

 

"You'd been planning to do that since Russia?" Eames said. "Are you insane?"

 

Arthur huffed out a breath, annoyed. "Don't go digging around my head without permission," he said.

 

Eames grinned. The bond had completed itself after their kiss, locking into place with a near-audible, painless, mental click. Now it felt like Eames had a radio somewhere in the back of his mind, tuned to a channel that was all Arthur, all the time. Right now it was only a quiet murmur of Arthur's emotions and surface thoughts, but if Eames concentrated a little he could listen to Arthur's deeper layers of thoughts. It was fascinating, and Eames couldn't help his curiosity. Besides, he could tell that Arthur's irritation was mostly an act. Mostly.

 

"Hey," he said, "don't think I can't feel you doing the same to me."

 

The presence that had been subtly shifting through Eames' thoughts froze and withdrew a little, but Eames could tell that it was still there. The look Arthur gave him was unrepentant. Eames shook his head and looked forward again. He didn't say anything, but he was sure that Arthur could feel his amusement.

 

Time had restarted after the bond cemented into place, earning them a few looks of alarm from the passersby. Eames couldn't blame them. From their perspective, two men just dropped out of nowhere, and both of them were covered in blood. No one approached them, but Eames didn't want to risk it and chose to take mostly back alleys during their trek to the hotel. When they entered the hotel lobby without hearing any sirens, Eames finally let himself relax.

 

Arthur poked him in the side. "We still have to get upstairs," he said.

 

"Pushy," Eames said without heat. He led them to the elevators, not wanting to take the stairs with Arthur in his current condition. "I save your life, and this is the thanks I get."

 

Arthur waited until the elevator arrived and they were headed up to their floor before he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Eames' cheek. "I am thankful for this," he murmured.

 

"I know," Eames said. Arthur's gratitude sang brightly through the bond, and Eames couldn't help but smile at it.

 

They arrived at their floor quickly enough, and within five minutes Eames was leading Arthur into his room and kicking the door shut behind them. The door wouldn't lock, thanks to it being kicked open earlier, but Eames would wait to report that to the lobby. He wasn't planning on staying more than a few hours, anyway. If Cobol had found him here once, they would certainly find him again.

 

He settled Arthur on the bed before turning to change out of his bloodstained clothes and pack. Used to having to run at a moment's notice, he was ready to go within a few minutes. All he had left out was a shirt and pants, and he tossed those onto the bed next to Arthur.

 

"You may want to change," Eames said. "People can see you now, and I don't want you causing a panic at the airport."

 

Arthur nodded and started peeling off his suit. Eames moved away, doing a quick once-over of the room to make sure he didn't miss anything. He glanced up at Arthur a few moments later, reacting to a pulse of _something_ in the bond, and what he saw made him freeze.

 

Arthur was down to his undershirt, his ruined jacket and shirt sitting next to him in a crumpled heap. Two bright lines of blood stained his back, spreading from his shoulder blades to his waist. Arthur's head was bowed, and he was reaching over his shoulder, tracing the ruined place where his wings once were. There was a heavy knot of grief in Eames' chest that didn't belong to him.

 

Eames moved to sit behind Arthur, covering Arthur's hand with his own. Leaning forward, he kissed Arthur's free shoulder before resting his chin on it. "Having regrets?" he murmured.

 

Arthur's fingers tightened under Eames'. "No," he said. "Never. But this is all so sudden and new, I can't help but…"

 

He trailed off, but Eames understood him well enough. He pressed a kiss to Arthur's neck, then his cheek, and, when Arthur turned towards him, his mouth. Arthur sighed into it, and the surge of warmth that accompanied the sound made Eames want to smile. Pulling back a little, he did just that.

 

"We'll figure it out, yeah?" he said. "We've got time."

 

"Yeah," Arthur said. He looked away. "I'm not sure how long—I've never met a bonded pair—but it'll be… probably longer than an average human lifetime."

 

Eames shrugged. "That's fine with me."

 

"Are you sure?" Arthur was watching Eames and his fear made Eames' heart pick up speed. "You didn't know that, going in, so I understand if—"

 

Eames couldn't help but laugh. "It's a little too late to back out," he said. He kissed Arthur again and added, "I said I was all right with that, and I meant it. I've got you, and that's all I could ask for right now."

 

"Really?" Eames was sure that Arthur could feel his sincerity through the bond, but he seemed to need verbal reassurance. Eames was happy to give it to him.

 

"Really."

  
Arthur gave Eames a faint smile and nodded. Eames returned the smile before resettling against Arthur, his chin back on Arthur's shoulder. He squeezed Arthur's hand. They needed to be on their way soon, but he wanted to enjoy this small moment of peace, with Arthur in his arms and their bond echoing with a tired sort of contentment. It felt like, no matter what happened to them, they'd be okay. Eames thought about the days and months and years stretched ahead of them and couldn't help but smile.


End file.
